A fistful of coppers and a silver-tongued sorceress
by drawingdisaster
Summary: A writing experiment of sorts where I am shaking the dust off my world-building muscles while also exploring a more fantasy oriented setting in a story. I also wanted so see how many chapters I could write in one sitting before I burned-out. There are currently four written chapters so far and the ending is unsatisfactory. Fantasy setting, knights, mages, Templar Riven.
1. Chapter 1

Another day, another meager handful of coppers. Riven sighs as she shoves the small dirty coins back into her pocket, the faint torchlight slipping through the corner of her post momentary making the low-value currency shine like the eyes of the monsters she is supposed to be guarding. The white-haired Templar sighs once more as her tired maroon-colored glare wanders across the rows of heavy wooden doors hiding an assortment of dangerous spell casters from prying eyes. Most of the prisoners are fortunately silent for the time being, attempting to sleep wrapped inside their torn filthy rags or licking their wounds after a particularly harsh interrogation.

That's a relief. Riven grimaces as her gaze returns back to the deserted underground stone corridor and its ancient dusty walls. The young Templar had always hated having to beat a defenseless witch with drained mana up simply because her superiors demanded that she _made the filth shut their heretic mouths,_ as they would so nicely put it.

But who was Riven to disobey the Grand Templar's orders or the will of the High Council? She was just a relatively new recruit after all, and while yes she might be a lot better with a blade than the average Jhin there was no shortage of ex-soldiers and crooks that could replace her and take her job in less than a heartbeat. The young Templar needed this job no matter how much she despised her actions, and other guards excluding herself of course would probably attack the prisoners with the intention of maiming and crippling them instead of merely silencing their angry yells and knocking the poor spell casters unconscious. Riven's presence here was a small mercy, the young white-haired woman thought bitterly, but that was all the mercy those tormented people would find inside these cursed dungeons.

The sounds of displeased voices and loud footsteps suddenly draws the female jailer's attention and Riven can almost feel the men and women behind the locked heavy doors cowering away from the shifting torchlight as four armored figures and a cloaked form hurriedly move across the dimly lit dungeon. The young Templar recruit instantly stands up and salutes her gruff-looking comrades as the ominous parade stops in front of her dusty table. Garen, one of the men clad in blue, white and silver offers the rookie Templar an exhausted curt nod before the chained witch panting among the guards is harshly shoved forward and onto the oaken table.

Riven easily sidesteps the stumbling woman's collapsing form and makes sure that she keeps her visage calm and emotionless as the Templar Captain's eyes roam her features searching for any signs of pity or unease. Garen will find none of course. Riven has long since learned to hide her feelings behind a cold neutral mask of indifference even though the Templar Captain would probably let her keep her job even if he did recognize the unease lurking just underneath her serious pale visage. Garen didn't enjoy tormenting his captives after all, the earnest man had still a soul unlike the majority of the other Templars that likened themselves as pious holy warriors bathed in honor and hymns and pure golden sunlight.

Pompous bastards they were all, their precious righteous souls more muddled than the cheap ale served in the shady watering holes they so frequently inhabited.

The cloaked woman straightens her back as she slowly rises to glare at the young Templar recruit with piercing honey-colored orbs, the golden diadem perched on top of the stranger's raven-black trenches flashing brightly under the wavering torchlight and the rookie Templar dully wonders how come the accessory hasn't already been confiscated by the company of greedy pigs that are masquerading as Templar Knights. Riven almost flinches under the dark witch's stare before another Templar shoves the captured spell caster back on the ground and the bruised witch doubles over next to the jailer's chair.

"This vile witch's name is Evaine Leblanc, a wretched dark spell caster also known as the Deceiver. She specializes in illusions and trickery and is responsible for the deaths of at least a dozen innocent men and women. The witch was apprehended by Sir Garen Crownguard himself a few hours before dawn.

The young Templar recruit nods and grabs a pen and a torn piece of scroll to write down the prisoner's details before Evaine is violently led into one of the empty cells and the door slams shut behind the vile dark sorceress trapping her inside. Garen spares a few more seconds to make sure that the cell's door has been locked properly before he tosses a couple of copper coins on top of the dusty oaken table.

"Thank you Captain."

The new Templar recruit states after she glances at the offered coins, as usual Garen has left her a few more coppers than he has to pay her for her jailer services.

"This woman is extremely dangerous. Make sure that you give her the potion between each meal and keep your weapon close at all times."

The white-haired warrior and the Captain exchange quick salutes before the looming intimidating assortment of armor-clad giants decides to leave and so the unit heads out of the narrow dark corridor leaving the young jailer to fulfill her duties in peace. The silent torchlight dances against the burly men's silver breastplates and their sheathed great swords, the mighty steel glimmering under the starving flames like the fangs of a burning dragon. The eerie veil of the darkness soon devours the stern Templar Knights as one of the prisoners start whimpering inside his pitiful gloomy prison.

Riven sighs as she hurriedly thumbs her collection of rusty scratched keys and approaches the locked door with hasty and determined strides. The white-haired swordswoman has to silence the stupid bloke quickly after all lest one of the Templars returns and breaks the poor mage's spine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Beta Reader: Gmp1000**

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Chapter 2

The underground prison is silent like the dreamless embrace of a merciful death, its thick stone walls hard and unyielding unperturbed by the passage of time. Sometimes a pitiful whine or a muffled curse would slip under the thin sunless schisms of one of the locked doors. Sometimes the captured sorcerers would pass the time by banging their heads against the hard grey stone.

Riven can't really blame the unstable frothing lunatics even if she can understand the futility and insanity of their actions. Those people are only walking out of there either like chained malnourished husks sent to be executed before the cheering crowds or an assortment of bloody limbs tossed in a sealed nailed coffin.

The young Templar recruit abruptly grimaces as the grim thoughts of the prisoners' fate seem to be whirling around her head like invisible vengeful ghosts dancing under the scarce torchlight. The exhausted woman pauses at that thought, running a pale but admittedly strong hand between her unruly white hair and Riven doesn't fail to notice how her current working conditions and the lack of proper nourishment and sunlight have turned her already deathly pale epidermis into an even more sickly white.

The depressed female jailer sighs as Riven can already picture the startled reactions of the pedestrians she may encounter later on while heading home and their suspicious and distrustful hateful stares. People with northern folk blood were rare in those parts of Valoran after all and so they were conceived as bringers of bad luck and omens of natural disasters by the uneducated superstitious folk that constituted the majority of the starving masses. And speaking of bad omens…

The bell of the old abandoned chapel near the edge of the town suddenly rings in the dark with the cacophony of the hammer of a hardworking blacksmith making the distrait young Templar recruit almost jump out of her skin in surprise.

The white-haired jailer blinks as Riven abruptly returns back to Valoran and the unsavory situation she currently has in her hands. The Templar's maroon-colored gaze slowly climbs towards a particular locked door, ivory eyebrows furrowing in a clearly thoughtful manner. Riven had yet to pay this Evaine woman a proper visit as Garen had strictly ordered her to do and the tired jailer can't really keep postponing her chore any longer.

Maybe the rookie Templar is just being silly, perhaps she is just overthinking things. Riven is probably being a tad too cautious of the amber-eyed woman especially since the black witch's manacles are supposed to be further weakening the drugged female's deadly magic. And yet for all the magical and physical restrictions placed on the seething black-haired chained woman and all the small copper coins Riven can fit in her pockets there is a weird disturbing feeling that greatly unsettles the hesitant jailer whenever she recalls those burning amber orbs, and the young Templar recruit has long since learned to always trust her gut feelings.

The snow-haired recruit merely shakes her head as she finally gathers her courage and stands up before approaching the locked door, her footsteps muffled by the whimpers of her sniffling captives. The jailer pauses before the locked barrier of steel, old nails and wood, ears perked for any suspicious sounds coming from the other side of the locked obstacle.

Nothing, the shaky murmuring voices and the snores of the other imprisoned spell casters are the only signs of life that reach the young jailer's ears. There are no curses or pained grunts coming from the newly captured sorceress' door and that single disturbing detail only serves to make the young rookie Templar even more nervous and uncomfortable.

Had Evaine LeBlanc simply died? Had the imprisoned dark witch merely decided to just off herself like those tormented shapeshifting sisters less than two weeks ago? Was the white-haired jailer being a fool, twiddling her thumbs while standing in front of a sealed door that was concealing nothing more frightening than a cold bloody corpse and staring at the rusted old lock like an idiot?

Riven hesitantly inserts the key in the lock and gives it a good swift twist before instantly stepping away from the doorway. The young warrior holds her breath as she deftly kicks the cell's door open, one hand forming a fist, the other one clenching the leather hilt of her trusty gigantic two-handed blade. The enormous sword won't be that helpful in a fight as Riven can't actually swing the sharp block of steel inside the narrow stone corridor of the dungeon of course, but the comforting feeling of the weapon's hilt gives the young Templar the courage she needs to approach the black rectangular hole and peek into the tiny dark room of her latest prisoner.

Evaine LeBlanc is merely glaring at her, the evil witch's black kneeled form shrouded in almost complete darkness as the underground cell lacks any windows or openings in general save for the tiny slit under the door which occasionally serves as a means to safely deliver the prisoners' pitiful meals and provide the captured spell casters with a few dusty breaths of much needed musty air.

The Templar warden silently observes the hunched chained woman as she waits for her eyes to get used to the absence of the sparse torchlight, a lone thread of orange-yellow light shyly slipping into the cell and causing the other woman in the room to avert her hurting amber eyes from the blinding open door and her white-haired warden. Riven spares a quick glance at the cracked filthy bowl filled with some kind of goop that's resting near the dark witch's feet and then uncaringly tosses a metal flask near her still glaring, bruised prisoner.

LeBlanc briefly glances at the little container before her gaze returns back at the obviously unamused female warden.

"Drink it."

The white-haired warrior spits and the dark witch's eyes narrow dangerously as pale delicate hands slowly reach for the discarded and scratched container. LeBlanc cautiously uncaps the flask's lid and takes a whiff of the sickly yellowish slurp that's seemingly boiling within it before she instantly closes it again and tosses the bottle with the drug back at the visibly impatient warden.

"You are actually expecting me to drink this poison out of my own free will? You must have lost your damn mind, Templar."

The white-haired warden merely shrugs and then kicks the flask back at LeBlanc, calm red eyes staring right into threatening twin chips of amber.

"There are two ways for you to drink this potion Evaine, and one of them is less painful that the other."

The crafty dark witch merely stares at the young Templar, examining the jailer's emotionless face and her calm red orbs, her tense posture and the way the Warden palms the hilt of her enormous sword every few seconds. Her powerful muscular arms and the intimidating aura surrounding her. The chained spell caster then silently downs the disgusting contents of the little flask before she grudgingly pushes the now empty container back to Riven.

The white-haired warden silently retrieves the small metal flask and spares LeBlanc a quick fleeting glance before she exits the room and then closes and locks the heavy wooden door behind her. The chained dark witch starts choking and trembling not even a moment later, but Evaine's cunning amber eyes never quite lose their threatening luster. A sinister smile slowly forms on the sorceress' cracked dry lips as the drugged pale spell caster weakly collapses on the dirty stained ground.


	3. Chapter 3

**Beta Reader: Gmp1000**

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Chapter 3

A few days later.

The young white-haired warden grimaces as she once again locks the door, the sounds of the vomiting mage behind said sealed door easily reaching the frowning swordswoman's ears. Riven clenches the empty metal flask in her hand as the solemn warrior hurriedly returns back to her decrepit stool near the end of the stone corridor.

What she was doing to that woman wasn't even cruel anymore, it was simply inhuman. Forcefully feeding _Witch's Bane_ to LeBlanc three times a day for an entire week had left the once defiant spell caster a weakened quivering shadow of her former self. Witch's Bane was terrifying like that. This particular odorous yellow concoction prepared by the mysterious Magical Brotherhood that had recently allied itself with the Templars could wreak havoc to the body of a witch or sorcerer and force its own magic to start attacking the host like a starving dog lunging at the throat of its owner. The effects of the disgusting yellow sludge were apparently even stronger the more magical power the affected spell caster possessed, and judging by Evaine's reactions the beautiful dark witch was definitely not a pushover.

Riven sighs as she places the empty scratched flash on top of the dusty wooden table and then proceeds to collapse on her old creaky stool. The warden tries to focus on anything other than LeBlanc and her terrible coughing fits, but the rookie Templar's concerned crimson eyes quickly betray her as they unconsciously shift back to the locked door and the pained sounds produced by the poisoned and restrained Evaine. Damn…

Riven had little to no knowledge of the imprisoned female spell caster's crimes, but the poor amber-eyed woman had spent more than a whole week suffering from the effects of Witch's Bane! Normally imprisoned spell casters would only be subjected to the horrors of the vile yellow concoction once in their tormented lifetimes, and that was to weaken them after their subjugation so that the prisoners could be safely transferred in the sunless dungeon. The dark mages were then left to rot inside the impenetrable stone walls of their prisons. Drained of their magic and striped off their unnatural gifts of course but also relatively unharmed.

What they were doing to this witch-… No.. what _She_ had been doing to that sick woman was pure torture even if Riven was just following Captain Crownguard's orders.

The sounds of low whimpering and approaching footsteps once again draw Riven out of her gloomy thoughts. A scrawny bald mage is thrown into a lightless cell and less than four new copper coins come into her possession. The white-haired warden sighs as the six Templar Knights leave the dimly lit hallway and disappear behind the ancient grey walls and the faded moldy tapestries that are hanging from it. The unseeing gazes of ancient saints and zealous moronic preachers following the Knight's hasty departure from their depictions in the torn stained fabrics. The young white-haired warrior can only helplessly stare at the small empty flask that's glistering in the torchlight like the blood of a slain god and can't wait for her damn shift to be finally over.

…

The secluded tavern the young Templar picks to drink her woes away is nothing more than a small wooden shack seemingly shoved between two bigger stone buildings near the edge of the town. Fortune's Smile it is called, a distant watering hole with watered-down wine and cracked filthy mugs and a half-decent cuisine if you somehow manage to find an unoccupied table and pick a stool to sit near the fireplace during the rush hour.

The secluded tavern is not an ideal place to sit back and relax or the undiscovered rose blooming in the shadow of the dusty and hostile town of Valiant. But the small establishment's main attraction isn't the quality of the drinks or the atmosphere or even its lower than normal prices for what could as well be water mixed with a few sips of cheap ale.

No, the reason the mercenaries and the various sellswords feel at ease and chose this rundown tavern to quench their thirsts instead of a more decent and admittedly cleaner place near the center is the woman that shares the small tavern's namesake. Sarah Fortune, a retired female pirate that decided to abandon the dangerous murky waters and the trying life in the open sea to set up shop in the small town of Valiant and kill her brainless misguided patrons with the poisons she spits in their ale.

Or at least those were the rumors being whispered behind the cheery former pirate's back before Sarah would arrive near the said table and slam a few foaming mugs down the cracked wood and the patrons would resume searching for answers in the blurry bitter fluids swirling inside their mugs and the empty bottoms reflected in their dazed eyes. It wasn't really helping that Sarah's bartender, an overweight, red-faced man named Gragas was never sober enough to avoid mixing all kind of alcoholic beverages together in a single order of course. The occasion of an alchemical bomb ending up being served in a stained glass was actually so frequent in fact that some of Sarah's patrons had started viewing their visits to the secluded watering hole as a kind of dare or risky gambit.

Riven smiles as she navigates the sea of crooks, inebriated farmers and the occasional drunkard in order to sit at a quiet empty table near the hearth, the Templar's maroon-colored eyes suspiciously following a hooded figure as the rogue passes her by to make some small talk with the Gragas fellow. The white-haired warrior double-checks to make sure that the contents of her purse are still intact before she waves two fingers at Fortune to draw the redhead waitress' attention.

The former pirate instantly spots her and passes her order to Gragas and a loud burp from somewhere on her right makes the young Templar sigh and scowl at her table. There are some cheers as a short man collapses near the bar the next second and the young warden dully wonders if the cheers are to congratulate the wasted unconscious man or the goons that are currently stealing his leather pouch.

Riven places a few copper coins on the table, her gaze travelling across the laughing or snoring patrons as she tries to occupy herself with the ensuing chaos taking place inside Fortune's Smile. Nothing of interest seems to be currently happening however. A middle-aged woman is trying to discreetly snatch a drunken man's purse, an orphan is wandering around the tables begging the patrons for a free drink, some bread or a shiny copper coin. There is a weird bearded man wearing a bearskin with the beast's scalp somehow secured on top of his head and the burly barbarian is cackling while recounting the tale of one of his most difficult hunts yet. Sona, the beautiful mute bard of the shady watering hole is strumming an antique harp and trying to earn her pay for the night and judging by the generous tips the young woman receives, Riven can safely presume that the old harp may actually have some magical properties…

The rookie Templar spots a few familiar faces trying to flirt with an angry wench and the white-haired warrior finds herself smiling as she patiently waits for the redhead waitress to finally bring her her damn order. The clanking of two heavy mugs set before her suddenly draws the young Templar's attention, alarmed crimson orbs instantly darting towards the smiling woman sitting at a nearby stool as Riven comes face to face with a mischievous grinning Sarah Fortune.

The startled Templar doesn't even bother glancing at the coins she had previously set down for the fiery redhead, knowing well that Fortune has already collected the scratched coppers while she had been distracted by the antics of the tavern's colorful, loud patrons.

"It's been a while since I last saw you here, Riv. I had started thinking that maybe you've had forgotten of little ol' me."

The new Templar recruit snorts as she takes a small sip of her watered-down ale and finds it at least as terrible as she could remember. Riven gags and spits some of the drink back in her cracked container as Fortune laughs with the pale warden's reaction.

"It's not that bad when you get used to it, Gragas was really proud of the new mixture. Or at least I think that he was, he had passed out and was snoring under the bar when I found him yesterday. But the smile perched on his lips was actually quite telling."

Riven just shrugs as she attempts to sample Gragas' disgusting masterpiece once again and this time the broke Templar isn't really certain if it is the drink that is so bad or if some invisible miniature critter had suddenly decided to crawl inside her lips and then embrace her taste buds just to commit suicide. Maybe the critter was also a vengeful spell caster that Riven had previously wronged. Yep, that was definitely a possibility and would explain the horrible taste in her mouth.

"I think this thing tastes worse by the second. Any chance I might be getting my money back so I can go visit a healer?"

"I'm afraid not, Riv."

Sarah's mischievous smile widens as she points at the second overflowing mug that's waiting for the white-haired warrior and then stands up to resume serving her drunk patrons. Bloody hell!

"Enjoy your drinks, oh pious one."

The young Templar merely rolls her eyes as she eyes the rest of her drink cautiously.

"That bastard Gragas is going to kill somebody one of those days…"

The warden states with some degree of sincerity in her words, but the broke jailer then downs the muddy drink and reaches for the other mug with a tired resigned expression plastered on her face. The white-haired swordswoman knows that she is going to need all the alcohol she can consume if she even hopes to keep working as a rookie Templar for another day or another week, or another torturously long endless hour for that matter.

Bloody sermons and holy swords, why in the nine hells are the unseen gods only whispering to the ears of their greedy bald priests? Why can't they pay attention to a northern folk orphan for once? Riven downs her second disgusting drink and when her lips part from the cracked mug even the fat barman standing behind the bar looks fragile and delicate like an elven princess.

…

That man is a bloody genius, now on to find out which one of the smiling triplets is actually the real Sarah Fortune and wrestle the bear-man for his half-empty mug before she asks the furry goblin spinning near the bar for a refill. The white-haired Templar hurriedly stands up as the whole room suddenly sits down and the floor rushes to meet her face. Damn you Gragas…

Why is it always the northerner…?

Red eyes narrow in suspicion and distrust as a _polite_ hooded man quickly kneels next to her to assist her.

"Back off and keep your hands to yourself scum or I will bite off your fucking nose."

It seems that the hooded man was not that polite after all since he instantly jumps away from her with an alarmed look and then darts back in the crowd. Riven sighs as she proceeds to slowly pick herself up from the dirty floor and then makes her way out of the noisy tavern. Riven like any good Templar worth their coppers doesn't forget to burp Sarah Fortune her goodnight and recount something about fire and.. ah! Brimstones as she bypasses the former pirate next to the bar before the young jailer empties her stomach just outside of the entrance.


	4. Chapter 4

**Beta Reader: Gmp1000**

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Chapter 4

"What have your pompous armored friends told you about me?"

Riven's threatening crimson orbs narrow dangerously as the ill dark witch that's presently knelt before her curiously stares at the young warden in her cell through amber intelligent eyes. The white-haired jailer points an impatient finger towards the metallic flask lying near the prisoner's feet, but Evaine LeBlanc simply ignores her as the mage's cracked dry lips keep forming her carefully constructed sentences.

"Did they tell you that I have harmed children and pregnant women perhaps? Or maybe that I ate some poor and innocent child? What sinister tales have your dear Templars cooked up to serve as indisputable proof of the heinous crimes I've never committed, Jailer? All because I didn't accept to deny my gift or agreed to use my magic for the benefit of their dear, oh so self-important council of old sycophants."

"Drink the potion Evaine."

"You know my name and yet you keep treating me like a lesser being, Templar. Forcing me to toss down this filthy repulsive yellow goo and suffer for just refusing to serve your overzealous corrupt Order."

"Drink the potion, Evaine. I am not going to ask you again."

The white-haired warden takes a threatening step forward, but LeBlanc's fierce amber eyes are aimed at Riven like concealed weapons and the pale swordswoman might have actually felt intimidated and backed off if it wasn't for the scent of sickness permeating the small shady chamber.

"No, this isn't a potion as you are so aptly calling it, but a poison meant to twist my magic inside out. It is a horrible means to torture a defenseless spell caster and I am done following your commands just so you can sleep better at night."

The young Templar growls in anger as she swiftly marches into the dark filthy cell and grabs a hold of the sickly and weakened female spell caster. It doesn't take long for the white-haired jailer to slam the flailing malnourished mage against the stone wall. Neither does it take her more than a few moments to pry open the other woman's bruised lips and empty the disgusting contents of the metal flask down the captured witch's sore throat. LeBlanc soon collapses on the cell's dirty floor like a puppet with cut strings and Riven is already moving towards the exit when the voice of the poisoned Deceiver makes the jailer pause for just a brief second.

"W-wait!" The trembling mage coughs out as she vomits behind Riven's back. "You have to see w-what you are doing to me. You ought to see what happens after your short everyday visits. You at least owe me that much. No! No! Don't walk away from me you coward! C-come back here and s-s-see the results of you precious little remedy!"

But Riven doesn't spare the dark witch a single glance before she carefully closes the heavy door and hastily locks the cell with the sickly woman inside. Only then does the conflicted warden allow herself to press her back against the wooden wall behind her form and slip down on the floor much like the currently spasming imprisoned spell caster. Only then does Riven's granite mask break as she listens to the pitiful dark witch convulsing and screaming in pain.

"Y-you're killing me! *Bleh* You're the *cough* you're the one doing this *cough* to me! Not the other knights or your superiors! *Sniffle* You are killing me! *Blurp* Y -re killing me for what?! A fistful of copper coins?!"

The white-haired Templar merely bumps the back of her head against the hard surface of the wooden door, she then absentmindedly shoves a hand inside her pocket and pulls out the few dirty scratched coins that gather at the center of her trembling palm. Maroon-colored eyes peek at the dirty chips of rounded precious metal that are glistering under the scarce torchlight.

The sparse filthy disks of the coins that are shimmering gently inside Riven's pale scarred palm don't even actually come close to a full fistful.

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 **Notes: And that's the ending so far with Evaine plotting from inside her cell trying to both communicate with the Templar and guilt trip her warden, and Riven hating her job and starting to second-guess her decisions. It is an interesting crossroad, since no cards were revealed and so as intended we don't know if LeBlanc was imprisoned because she did something wrong or if the Templars are just biased against the spell casters.**


End file.
